


your heart can't be helped

by Spacedog



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Gift Fic, Homesickness, M/M, Memory Related, POV Steve Rogers, Stucky Secret Santa 2015
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2016-01-03
Packaged: 2018-05-11 08:31:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5620300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spacedog/pseuds/Spacedog
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>when you’re a thousand miles away from home, even holidays don't feel the same.</p><p>or: brooklyn boys versus the california cool.</p>
            </blockquote>





	your heart can't be helped

**Author's Note:**

> super-late secret santa fill for [ughbuckybarnes](http://ughbuckybarnes.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, as part of the [stucky secret santa](http://stuckysecretsanta.tumblr.com/).

It’s a balmy, fifty-degree late December night in Los Angeles, and Steve Rogers is sitting in the back of a limousine, dressed to the nines in a suit whose price tag had about three too many zeroes in it. The limousine he’s traveling in is armed to the teeth and could probably withstand anything and everything short of a nuclear explosion. There’s a handgun safe next to the mini-bar.

“Doesn’t feel much like Christmas,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. Bucky, sitting beside him, hums. Steve takes in the towering palm trees as they pass them by, some glittering with string lights, and not for the first time that month, he wishes he were home.

December hadn’t been the easiest of months for Steve and the team. Two missions, back to back, in opposite ends of the globe, and all the paperwork and bureaucracy that followed would have been enough to merit cashing in his vacation days, but just when Steve thought he’d caught a break, he’d been sent to Washington to testify at another week-long congressional hearing on the latest “threat to the American way.” He’d been jetsetting all month, and was jetsetting still, without a chance to even think about the holidays. At least this event—a charity gala for children in need—was for a good cause.

“What, the sunny skies and shirtsleeves weather don’t put you in the _holiday spirit?_ ” Bucky asks, his voice just barely on the edge of sarcasm. He looks up from his from his phone, and Steve thinks he can see a smirk.

“Not the weather that’s got me feeling off,” Steve laughs softly, as he shakes his head, “Fact that I went out in shorts this morning sure don’t help, though.”

The sixty-degree forecast that morning had Steve forgetting Christmas was quick on its way. But it was more than just that, it was more than just the pleasant balminess of Southern California that dislodged him from the holiday spirit.

This Christmas was looking to be the first Christmas that Steve spent out of New York City since the Western front, since those bitterly cold days almost a century ago.

It was his first Christmas out of New York since before he’d crash-landed in the Arctic, his first Christmas out of the city since he’d learned that his old life was far, far behind him.

It was his first Christmas that Steve was lucky enough to share with Bucky since before the fall, and he was a thousand miles and a summertime’s worth of sweat away from New York—from home.

December might have been tough for Steve, and the whole team—Nat, Sam, even Sharon—deserved a whole month off from anything work-related. But the past year hadn’t been smooth sailing, even for Bucky. _Especially_ for Bucky.

Recovery wasn’t easy. The countless missions to raze the last of Hydra’s insidious tendrils to the ground weren’t easy. Dealing with the public sure as _hell_ wasn’t easy. The public reaction to Bucky being alive, the calls for his arrest and Bucky’s execution, the constant cycling of the Winter Soldier files on every news outlet imaginable, the outrage over a presidential pardon after calls for a trial—it was all a test of will that even Steve, even _Captain America_ , found himself struggling to weather. And somehow, Bucky came out of it alive and thriving and always with that fighter’s conviction. It astounded Steve to see how much a year or two had done for Bucky, and this gala—his first public appearance since the pardon—was like a culmination of victories over the year.

Though Steve still admits, to himself, after this year, it would be nice to be home.

Their limousine slows to a soft stop. Bucky pockets his phone and tucks some flyaways behind his ear, a little habit he started getting into once he decided to keep it long. It’s a reflex gesture, but it warms Steve up and makes Steve smile. Bucky tends to have that effect on him. Especially now.

“Don’t let the weather get you too down, now _,_ ” Bucky jokes, kissing Steve’s cheek softly, gently, his lips barely grazing Steve’s skin, “Got some kids to save, y’know.”

Steve snorts. “Saving kids, I can do, easy. Schmoozing up to old money’s the hard part.” he says. Bucky’s kiss has his heart buzzing. He’ll never be used to it, he thinks, though he’s not complaining. He smiles at Bucky, before stepping out of the limousine and into a familiar barrage, not of bullets, but of bright, flashing lights and chaotic media clamor.

In the invitation to the gala, they were told the event was going to have paparazzi, and they knew the press was going to storm the carpet to get the first interview with Captain America and his newly-not-dead best friend post-pardon. But the suddenness of it was jarring. It was always jarring in this century. Paparazzi were a _whole_ lot more physical than the newspaper photographers of Steve’s time in the USO, that was for sure.

“You gonna be alright?” Steve asks, peeking into the limousine where Bucky’s already halfway on his way out. The lights continue to flash. Steve imagines he’ll be on the front page of celebrity gossip sites before they’re even in the building. He can imagine the reactionary headlines now: _Cold Feet? Winter Soldier Having Second Thoughts at L.A. Charity Gala._ The thought makes him cringe.

“Gonna be fine, Rogers. Not like I haven’t been the center of attention before,” Bucky says, voice sly, as he steps out into the fray, looking calm and looking _good._ He glances up at the paparazzi and smiles, slow and intense.

The press _eats it up._

Maybe the last year was Bucky’s trial by fire. Maybe, as impossibly rough as it was, he came out stronger and more charming and more comfortable and more capable in front of those bright lights.

Maybe Bucky had just always been this good with the cameras, and growing up a working-class kid in the heart of the City hadn’t given him a chance to show off.

Maybe it was a little bit of both. Regardless of the reason, Bucky clearly had the press’s attention completely in his control this time around, and Steve couldn’t have been more charmed if Bucky brought him flowers.

They step out away from their ride and onto the red carpet area together, not touching, not linking their arms together, but still clearly _together_. They know the routine. Pose for the cameras, get in a short interview or two, it’s par for the course with these big galas, and even if it isn’t planned, when two or more Avengers are in attendance, that sort of attention just _becomes_ the expected. As they move forward, Steve does a quick sweep of the surrounding area: he recognizes a few celebrities are in attendance. Some big names, but it’s only a handful. Wealthy multi-millionaires make up the bulk of the crowd shuffling inside. Steve can make out Tony’s voice through the din. There’s marked security at the entrance, walking the carpet, and Steve can make out some security posted around the parameter of the building. That’s at least ten for Steve’s count, and those are only those can see.

And then there’s Bucky. Steve was worried about him, worried about how he would take this big of a public appearance after the pardon, but right now, Bucky looks good. With his quick sweep done, Steve takes a moment to _really_ look at his date. Bucky’s hair is pulled back into a loose bun at the base of his skull. Steve wants to run his fingers through it. His suit is dark, tailored just slim enough to show off his long legs and his thick chest. He’s not wearing a tie. It might not feel very much like Christmas here, far away from home, but Bucky all dressed up and looking like this is a gift in and of itself.

And Steve really, really wants to kiss him right now.

“Looking good?” Bucky asks, quiet. Covert, almost. Steve smiles.

“Yeah,” he says, “Looking good.”

\---

They make their way through the press line, doing some short interviews before making their way inside.

Interviews is a generous term. In reality, the interviews on the carpet consist more of reporters and gossip bloggers shouting questions about their personal lives at them while they try to look photogenic, more than they consist of any sort of in-depth questions looking for in-depth answers.

Red carpets were not the place for political discourse. Steve didn’t expect them to be.

“Excuse me? Captain Rogers, Sergeant Barnes, Cindy Moon for the Daily Bugle,” one reporter calls out. She seems young. She’s probably an intern. “How are you two doing tonight?”

Bucky smiles, the charm turned up to eleven. “ _Swell_ ,” Bucky says, drawing the word out into something far more flirty than it ought to be, “Gonna be raising some good money for a good cause with Captain America. Not many things I’d rather spend the night doing.”

Steve raises his eyebrows and tries his best not to say something smart. Gotta think of the kids, Rogers.

“Well,” the reporter says, and she sends him back a winning smile. Steve can see they’re both struggling for professionalism here, but she’s doing really well. Better than Steve, even. She's going places. “You’re working hard for that spot on the nice list, huh?”

If Bucky took that personally, he doesn’t show it. He just shrugs his left shoulder, and runs his right hand through his hair and messing with his bun—if just slightly—as he speaks. “Yeah, well, you could put it like that, yeah.”

“And you, Captain? Think you’re on the nice list this year?”

“Been on the nice list the last thirty-one years of my life, ma’am, and I don’t plan on changing that any time soon,” Steve says, in full Captain America voice. He can almost _feel_ Bucky trying to keep it together next to him. That makes them square, he thinks, with a little smirk.

“Didn’t expect much less from Captain America himself,” she says, missing the joke, though not by any fault of her own. She smiles big at them. “You both have a great night.”

“You as well, ma’am,” Steve says, and he does a little nod to her, as he turns to leave the press line, with Bucky pressed close to his side. “What’d you think of that?” he asks, and Bucky snorts.

“I think you’re full of shit, Rogers,” he says, elbowing Steve in the side just as they pass through glass doors and enter the gala proper. Steve laughs, perhaps louder than what’s appropriate.

“What, _Captain America’s_ not an absolute angel, is that what you’re telling me?”

“ _Captain America_ is the nation’s darling, even after S.H.I.E.L.D fell and those pundits and politicians were calling for my head. Captain America still polls better than the Pope, most days.” Bucky pauses, gratefully accepting two flutes of champagne from a passing waiter. “ _You,_ on the other hand, I know fully well you’ve done _more_ than enough to get you on the naughty list for another three lifetimes.”

Steve swipes a flute of champagne from Bucky—after all, it’s not like he needs two. Neither of them can get drunk with their respective serums and all. “Like what? We’re working an event for _charity._ For _kids._ How’s that not getting me on the nice list?”

“You picked fights pretty much _all the time_. Still do!”

“Only fight for people who can’t fight for ‘emselves,” Steve replies smugly, taking a sip of the champagne. “By all means, try again, though.”

“You use the Captain America voice as an excuse to get away with sarcasm. You lie to people about what was real and what wasn’t real in the forties, just to see if they’re paying attention.”

A pause. Bucky sizes Steve up. There’s hardly any space between them as he grazes Steve’s lapels, metal hand this time. “You steal my clothes and act dumb when I call you out on it.”

“Hey, hey. You do that, too. And it’s just the tie tonight,” Steve says quietly, smiling. _God,_ he wants to kiss Bucky right now. He might just do that, if Bucky doesn’t back up. “Now, if you wanna sit here arguing about this all night, we can. Or we can go make money for some kids. You know. _Save Christmas_.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Bucky grumbles, smoothing down Steve’s lapels and still looking completely unconvinced. But when Steve moves to work the crowds, Bucky follows, regardless.

He always does.

\---

As much as they try to stay together, Steve and Bucky’s conversations go different places, and they split up for the night. It’s a comfortable break: the strategy for the night becomes divide and conquer, then charm who you can.

Somehow, Steve ends up with the grandchildren of some of the people he worked with on the original Captain America USO tours, now well-established families in Hollywood and the southern California business scene, spending ten times the amount of their grandparents’ USO salaries on tonight’s donations alone. But their conversations start with memories and end after the charm of nostalgia wears off, and they part ways after Steve has their donations pledged.

“We don’t want to keep you,” they tell him, “Besides, I think your date is waiting for you. He’s outside, on the terrace.”

Of all the good ideas that night, sneaking outside and getting away from the dull conversation of the rich and famous is the best one, hands-down.

Steve smiles at Bucky when he sneaks outside, and Bucky nods back. The night is surprisingly quiet, surprisingly _peaceful_ , Steve thinks, though he’s not naïve enough to think the dozens of security surrounding the parameter has nothing to do with it.

“You alright?” he asks, taking a seat next to Bucky. His hair is loose now, and he’s fiddling with the little elastic band he used to keep it up earlier in the night.

“Yeah, ‘m alright. Just tired,” Bucky replies softly, and after everything that they’ve been through, a war and a century in between them, Steve still recognizes when Bucky is more beat than he’ll let on, “Just need a breather.”

Steve scoots closer to Bucky, bumping their shoulders together. Like he used to do in the trenches, like he used to do after Bucky came home bone-tired and underpaid, before the war. “Don’t have to stay if you’re tired. We can go. Call a cab, head back to our hotel, and sleep until noon. We won’t even have to bother with Stark’s afterparty.”

“You trying to bail on Stark?” Bucky asks. Steve shrugs.

“Well, if I can get out of it ‘fore he can ask, that’s not bailing, now is it?” Steve asks, smiling as innocent as he can possibly muster.

Bucky laughs, breathy and soft. “See, you’re not on the nice list at all, Rogers. Lied to that nice girl, now you’re trying to bail on Stark. Unbelievable.”

“Whatever, Buck. I’m not the one flirting with her,” Steve murmurs, tangling their fingers together.

“She’s too young for me, even if I _weren’t_ old enough to be her great-grandpa. I was flirting with you, punk,” Bucky replies, just as low, “No _wonder_ it took us so long to go official, my God.”

Steve laughs at that, but not the loud bark of a laugh from earlier, but a soft little thing, something not to disturb the little peace they’ve found out in the dark.

They fall into a long silence after that. It’s a comfortable silence. It’s not the hundred-volt silent tension after they fight, or the silence of two strangers who’ve run out of things to say. It’s a careful silence, an understood silence. It’s something they’ve been comfortable with since they were kids. It’s something they can appreciate, even now. Especially now. Steve absentmindedly begins tracing circles on the top of Bucky’s hand, running the soft pad of his thumb against the familiar grooves of steel against steel. Bucky rests his head against Steve’s shoulder, his hair falling soft against Steve’s stiff suit jacket.

It’s nice. It’s serene. Steve feels that knot of _something_ _off_ that settled in his stomach begin to ease.

“You know,” Bucky starts. It’s less breaking the silence and more pushing it aside; less the destruction of that comfort than working with and around it. “Last Christmas. Before I moved back in with you. Before we got together. When I told you—when I told you I needed my space. I remembered something.”

“Yeah?” Steve asks. He knows he has to tread carefully. He knows he has to let Bucky lead. He always has to let Bucky lead.

“It was a year or two before I shipped out to basic. Around this time of the year. You’d been taking art classes in Manhattan.”

“Yeah, yeah, I was. I saved a little from painting signs, and the guy at the school’d been impressed enough with my portfolio to let me in without any real training,” Steve added. Those classes felt like a lifetime ago.

“Well—you remember one of the gals in that class? God, I can’t remember her name for the life of me, Hedy? Ida? Dunno. Anyway. She’d really loved your stuff and invited you to her Christmas party that year. And you invited me. We’d been so excited to go, to see what Christmas was like for the people living in her part of the city, to see what Christmas was like for movie stars and the moneyed—and not even an hour in, and we were _miserable_ there.”

Bucky laughs, shaking his head. It almost seemed as if he was his full age there, looking world-weary and nostalgic. “We’d worked ourselves up for weeks and got ourselves dressed up in our best, and we didn’t even enjoy it.”

And they hadn’t. Steve remembers that party—how much they’d stuck out, how they didn’t know anyone but one another. How no one really made an effort to make either of them feel like they belonged there, how they were novelties, at best. How they left early, telling Hedy or Ida or _whatever_ she was named that Steve wasn’t feeling too well, and only feeling _somewhat_ bad about lying to her.

Steve can see why Bucky’s thinking about it now; more than seven decades into the future, and they’re both far wealthier and far more famous than either of them ever could have imagined. They’re on the other side of that proverbial street now, and literally on the opposite end of the country to boot. But rich as they were, famous as they were, as great a cause this gala was for, both of them were so plainly _tired._ Things were still the same. At this big, shiny California gala, they were still treated the same way they were treated in Manhattan all those years ago.

“I remembered that party last year. It was my first Christmas memory I got back,” Bucky continues. “Because mostly—even though I remembered how much it sucked, I remembered it sucked a lot less than if I hadn’t been with you. That last Christmas alone was when I first remembered that even though you did—no, even though you _do_ —a whole lot of _stupid shit_ , Steve, I’m a lucky guy if I get to spend my Christmases with you. In spite of everything, it feels enough like the holidays _when_ I spend ‘em with you. So—thanks.”

The silence sweeps them up again. It’s comfortable, if not a little warmer than before, but that painful, personal revelation—that vulnerability that Bucky shared—had Steve itching to break that silence, comfortable though it was.

“Bucky?” Steve asks, looking at Bucky like he’s his anchor; like he’s Polaris, like he’ll lead him back home.

“Yeah, Steve?” Bucky answers.

His eyes are so, so blue.

“Can I kiss you?” Steve asks, tucking some flyaways behind Bucky’s ear. He always asks. Even when Bucky tells him he doesn’t have to ask, he always asks. Steve will always negotiate these boundaries with Bucky if it means he’ll never have those boundaries breached ever again.

“Yeah. Yeah, Steve,” Bucky murmurs low, almost inaudible. He smiles, and Steve feels warmer than the California sun. “I’d like that.”

They kiss. Soft and intimate and with an incredible amount of care for such a small gesture, they kiss. Bucky tastes better than the night’s champagne. His lips are so, so soft. Steve threads his fingers through Bucky’s hair, and for a moment, he wonders why he would ever offer to cut it. In that moment, Steve feels better than he did that entire night, that entire _month,_ even. In that moment, he would go through the entire year’s struggles all at once, if it meant kissing Bucky like this again. In that moment, Steve never wants to pull away, and almost chases Bucky’s lips as they do.

“Steve. I,” Bucky says, as he catches his breath, his eyebrows furrowing into an expression that Steve recognizes all too well; somewhere between hurt and confused, with just the slightest glimmer of hope. It’s the look Bucky got when something came back; it’s the pain of remembering something that he didn’t even realize he’d been forced to forget. “I feel—homesick.”

He’s not crying. Bucky doesn’t cry so easily these days, even if he wants to. Steve can’t tell if this is one of those moments that he wants to, but he takes Bucky’s left hand in his, either way. Gently, he brings Bucky’s hand up to his lips. Just barely grazing his lips over the cold steel, he kisses Bucky’s knuckles, feather-light and reverent.

“We’ll be back soon,” Steve murmurs, his voice an ironclad promise, “I’ll get you home in time for Christmas. We’ll leave as soon as this thing is over. We’ll see the tree. We’ll go skating. We’ll stay in and I’ll make you cocoa on the stovetop, like we used to. No work, no galas, no interviews, no congressional hearings on the status of such-and-such. Just you and me, Christmas ‘till New Years, and then some. Swear it to you.”

Bucky squeezes Steve’s hand. “I’d like that.”

“Yeah,” Steve smiles, “I’d like that, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> title taken from regina spektor's "firewood." major thanks to [emily](http://archiveofourown.org/users/goodmanperfectsoldier/pseuds/goodmanperfectsoldier) and [felix](http://starlitshark.tumblr.com/) for beta reading. 
> 
> happy 2016, everyone.


End file.
